It’s cool back here, in the storage room Herb has the audacity to call anarchive.The rows of metal shelves lined with filing boxes provide a wall for me to hide behind, and for a moment, I let myself take advantage of that.

Because more than any other feeling—nausea, anxiety, hot flashes, cold sweats—I’m battling the urge tohide. To run.

I like you.

It’s not India I want to run from, necessarily. It’s not her confession, which admittedly knocked my planet right off its axis. No, the part I want to run from is how I felt right after she said it.

It was messy. A tangled knot of emotions that will be impossible to sort out, even if I try. A jubilant burst of confetti somewhere deep, deep down; a fervent string of expletives at the realization that Cyrus was right and I’d now have to deal with the consequences; the inexplicable desire to defend myself when she said she wasn’t surprised I didn’t know how I felt.

There was also a twinge of insecurity as I looked back at my dating record and wondered if I was even capable of something real withsomeonereal.

Because whatever else India is, she’s real. She’s real, and she’s close in a way that I don’t usually let people get. I’ve hidden nothing from her, given her nothing fake, because I’ve never been trying to impress her.

I like you.

A smile tugs at my lips, completely inappropriate and out of place. I shouldn’t be happy she likes me. I have no idea how I want to move forward with this situation. So I rub my hand over my face, trying to get rid of that smile, but it stubbornly refuses to leave.

I take another deep breath and then stand up, returning to the box I was going through. I’ll just have to work with a smile for a bit, I guess. Veronda and Herb are all pistons firing about this TV spot we have in a few weeks, and they won’t be happy if they find me slacking off. I’m supposed to be pulling articles related to our forever-ago coverage of Lucky’s first mayor, which is less than thrilling, but Veronda insisted.

At the reminder of Veronda, though, my smile finally fades. She’s still hoping to get footage from the Bicentennial Pageant, and at this point, it’s out of my hands, because I used one of Herb’s old digital cameras back then. If he can find it, they’ll use it for the program.

She sounded like she was saying goodbye.

The thought pops into my head uninvited, and I swallow the fresh wave of anxiety that washes over me.

“Don’t be stupid,” I mutter to myself. “She wasn’t saying goodbye. You’re still friends.”

No matter what I tell myself, though, it doesn’t feel right. Something feels different, in a way I can’t describe.

I just need to talk to her. So, pushing down the nausea in my gut, I pull my phone out and call her, riffling through the box in front of me halfheartedly with my other hand. Someone really needs to digitize all this.

The call rings for almost thirty seconds before India finally answers, and I’m so excited—or maybe so startled—that I jump, hitting my head on the metal shelf above my head as I hunch over the box.

“Ow,” I say with a hiss of pain. I scoot back and straighten up, my lower back thanking me, and then I say, “Hey. Hi.”

“Hi,” she says. “Are you okay? Did I hear you sayow?”

“You did hear me say that, yes,” I say, rubbing the top of my head. “But I’m fine.” I hesitate for a second, unsure of how to go on. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she says, and she sounds fine, too—like everything is totally normal, like she didn’t tell me she likes me. “I can’t talk long, though, so what’s up?”

“Uh, nothing,” I say, pacing back and forth in the row of shelves. “Just—wanted to make sure everything is fine.”

I could not sound stupider if I tried, and for some reason I suddenlycareabout that.

“Well, I’m fine,” she says, her voice cheerful. “I do need to go, though. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“I—okay,” I say lamely. “Bye.”

“Bye!” she says, and then she hangs up.

And I feel exactly zero percent better than I did before I called.

I can’t call her again. I can’t talk to her, apparently. But I’m left feeling empty for her in a way I don’t understand.

I drift aimlessly up and down the row, barely paying attention, until I find the box half of my brain is looking for. I slide the lid off and set it carelessly on the floor in the aisle. Then I begin to flip through the contents—slowly at first, and then with more vigor, because that sick feeling is back. I flip and I flip—and I flip so fast, in fact, that I almost miss it.

A byline, filed underMarigold, India.